Enter Rumour, Painted Full of Tongues
by JamesLuver
Summary: Modern AU. Carefully, he edges even closer to the door, until his ear is almost pressed up against the crack. He doesn't have to listen all that hard; Thomas' voice carries like a foghorn. "You're never gonna believe it. It's totally disgusting. Not to mention unprofessional."


**A/N:** Originally written October 2018 as a belated birthday present for **annambates**.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

_Enter Rumour, Painted Full of Tongues_

_That Night_

Christmas parties at the workplace are always the same: too much wine with too many regrets in the morning, too many ugly Christmas jumpers, too many Secret Santa gifts which are met with barely-mustered false enthusiasm, too much awkward ducking to avoid meeting someone under the mistletoe. John has never been a fan; he can think of a thousand things that he'd rather do than socialise with his work colleagues outside the office, especially when those work colleagues are the likes of Thomas Barrow and Sarah O'Brien. There's only one reason that he's come here tonight—though Robert thinks that it's his begging that's done the trick—and that reason is currently out on the dancefloor with Molesley. The sight is not a pleasant one for him, even though Molesley's dancing after a few drinks leaves much to be desired. John sighs, tugging at the neck of his shirt. He's already discarded his suit jacket and not for the first time wishes that Robert had chosen something a little less crowded. With so many people crammed into such a small space, the temperature has rocketed, and he feels decidedly uncomfortable in his formalwear. Downing the rest of his water, he slams his glass back down on the table.

"I'm going for a breath of fresh air," he shouts over the thumping music, hoping his best friend can hear him. "I need to cool down."

"Don't be too long," Robert yells back. "It'll be time for the gift exchange soon."

Not an incentive to hurry. He'd ended up having to buy a gift for Mrs. Hughes, which wasn't all bad, since he likes and respects her very much, but he'd rather avoid the embarrassment of having to stand there while she opens it, and he has no doubt that Thomas and O'Brien's reactions to whatever they end up with will be less than respectful, which will only sharpen his temper. If only he could have come up with a decent excuse not to attend tonight. If only Robert had pretended to believe him.

"Okay," he says anyway, for there is no other answer. "Ten minutes."

Roberts nods his consent, and John pushes his chair away from the table, grabbing hold of his cane and wending his way between the empty tables towards the fire exit. Most of the staff are on the dancefloor, partaking in an enthusiastic Macarena. It's one of those times that he's fiercely glad that he can't dance any longer—the only thing that he wishes he could do was slow dance, so that he'd be able to ask Anna for her hand. But it is a stupid notion, one that he will never be able to fulfil, and it's probably better that way. Anna has her whole life ahead of her, and it does nobody any good to be given false hope. She can do so much better than him, washed up and jaded as he is. She needs a proper man, not one tarnished by the mistakes he's made in the past.

The air is blissfully cold on his face as he emerges outside, and he breathes in deeply, enjoying the way that it slaps his cheeks. He ferrets in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes—he'll make giving them up his New Year's Resolution—and shields the flame from the lighter against the tip of the cigarette as the wind blows. He takes a deep drag and taps ash from the end of it, tilting his head back to the sky.

"Hey, you."

Anna's voice behind him makes him jump, and he turns around quickly to find her standing in the doorway, shivering violently in the breeze. She's left her outer layers inside, and he can see the goosebumps on her arms.

"You should get back inside before you catch your death," he tells her. She ignores him, taking a resolute step outside.

"I've barely had the chance to talk to you all evening," she says.

"Molesley's been monopolising all of your attention," he replies. He doesn't quite succeed in keeping the resentment out of his voice, and hates himself anew.

If Anna senses it—which she surely has to—she doesn't comment. Instead, she steps nearer, almost close enough to touch. "I'd rather have spent the time with you. I've missed you this evening."

"I've missed you too," he says. He cannot lie to her about that. She is the best friend he has, has been from the moment that she defended him that first day at Crawleys'. "Have you been having a good time?"

"It's been okay," she says. "But it would have been better if I was with you."

"Well, you're with me now," he says. His heart does a funny drumroll in his chest at the thought that _he _could have made it better for her, when she has spent the whole evening surrounded by young, vibrant men. He shakes the egotistical pleasure away.

"Yeah," she says. "I've had a drink."

It's a strange thing to say. He waits without comment.

"I needed some Dutch courage," she clarifies.

"Why?" he asks.

"There's something I want to do."

"What's that, then?"

She doesn't answer him with words. Instead, she steps closer to him, so close that he catches the seductive fragrance of her perfume, the sweet smell of her hair. She looks gorgeous tonight, in a black cocktail dress and lethal heels that should not be allowed. They've spiked her height by several inches, but even that addition still leaves her craning her neck a little when she looks at him. It's a sight that endears him and heats him in equal, guilty measure.

He doesn't have the time to think of anything else before her arms are around his neck, and her body is aligning itself with his as she rises on her tiptoes, and he feels the warmth of her breath on his mouth, and then her _lips_—

It takes his addled brain several moments to realise that she's kissing him. _Anna is kissing him_. It's a scenario that he has dreamt about for months now, hating himself all the while. He cannot deny the truth to himself: he's been falling for her. It was inevitable, really; Anna has such a good heart, such a sunny, caring attitude, that it's impossible to stand in her light and not be affected by it. She's his best friend, the one person who has brought a smile to his face some days. She understands him in a way that nobody else does, knows when to offer a quiet word of reassurance and when to leave him to his own thoughts. She's let him into parts of her life that are dear to her, taking him to all of her favourite places in Yorkshire and giving him an intimate look at the things she loves the most.

She has never seen him as less than a man.

Even so, this cannot be. They are good friends; he thinks the world of her, and even though it kills him inside, this is why they can never have anything more. She deserves more than what he can offer her, a lifetime of mistakes and regrets. He pulls away.

"No," he breathes against her, even as he pushes away the hair that has stuck to her cheek, completely outside of his control. "Anna, we can't—"

"We can," she says, bold and self-assured. "There's nothing wrong in it, John."

"Of course there is."

"Why?"

He makes a helpless gesture, trying to articulate the hopelessness of it all. "Christ, Anna. I've made so many mistakes."

"You and the rest of the world."

"I won't ruin you. Vera—"

"Sod your ex-wife," Anna says fiercely. "I don't care about her, or about any of the other stuff. None of that has changed my opinion on you."

It should have done. She knows the worst of him. The struggle against alcohol, the bitter relationship with Vera, the disability that plagues him every day.

"You deserve so much more," he tries.

"Don't you dare presume what I do and don't deserve," she snaps. "_I'm_ the only one who can decide that for myself, John."

And she moves to kiss him again, and he is powerless to stop her. Her mouth is soft and yielding, the kind of mouth that coaxes a man into the deepest of forbidden temptations. John's eyes slide closed as the dam breaks inside him, flooding him with all of the emotions that he has tried to keep buried for so long. He curls his fingers through her hair, tilting her head further up to him. She sighs, her mouth opening beneath his, and he feels the tip of her tongue—

"Anna, it's just about to—oh!"

Gwen's startled voice brings John back to the present with an unpleasant jolt. Stumbling over his cane, he pushes Anna away from him. Gwen stares at them, her cheeks flushing pink.

"I—um—sorry, I didn't know I was interrupting anything," she says lamely.

Apparently unconcerned, Anna pats her hair down and says, as if she's been interrupted doing nothing more interesting than staring at the night sky, "Is it time for the Secret Santa?"

"Y-Yes," says Gwen. She's not looking at either of them. Well, that suits John just fine. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to look Gwen in the face ever again. He can feel himself burning up despite the cold temperatures, and knows that no one will be able to mistake his colour for wind-chill.

"Well, we'd better not dawdle," says Anna, moving briskly towards the door. "They'll have our guts for garters if they do."

John remains rooted to the spot as she disappears back inside. Gwen glances at him, face clashing with her hair, then hurries after her. He has little doubt that she will be questioning Anna furiously on what she has just walked in on, and he finds that his desire to go back inside has dropped even further. He can't face it. He can't go back in there and pretend that everything is okay, not when he is disorientated and confused. He never got to question her, to see the conversation through to its proper conclusion. He is a man, and men like things to be laid out in clear, unmistakable terms. He likes finality.

Christ, how is he going to get through the rest of the evening when he finally knows the texture of Anna's mouth, and the little breathy sound that she makes in the back of her throat when she's kissed? Hell, how is he going to get through the rest of his _life _after this revelation? He should never have had this knowledge.

Knowing that he can't put off his return any longer, no matter how much he might like to, he slowly drags himself back inside. The muffled, raucous sounds emanating from the main room make his stomach flip unpleasantly, but he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, grips his cane tighter, and forces himself inside like a man might force himself to make the final journey to the gallows. He's sure that what will meet him in there will be worse than any kind of hell that could possibly exist.

* * *

_Three Days Later_

There are just three days to work before the Christmas break, but John doesn't feel like going back to the office on Monday morning. There's too much going through his head for him to be able to function properly, and Anna is not going to be there. She'd requested the time off months before so she could fly out to America to spend the holidays with her sister and her nieces and nephews, and she won't be back until after the New Year.

It means that he won't be able to confront her about whatever the hell happened at the Christmas party. There was no opportunity to on that night, for after the gift-giving she had been inundated with more dancing invitations, which she had taken, and he had been unable to catch her alone to try to get his head around what had transpired. She'd left with Mary before he could say anything else, and when he'd texted her, asking if they could talk, she'd replied by asking if they could do it when she returned from America, because it wasn't something she could do right now.

He isn't sure how he feels about that, because it means he's going to spend the entirety of the Christmas break in a complete head spin, floundering under the weight of what has occurred. Every time he closes his eyes he remembers it, her mouth softening over his, the taste of the wine on her tongue, the way her fingers felt winding through the hair at the nape of his neck, that little noise she made as she rose on her tiptoes to align their bodies.

He burns for her.

It shames him and frustrates him, and the last three nights have been sleepless, haunted by her phantom touch. His phone has stayed ominously quiet since their encounter. That's never happened before. Usually, Anna texts him at least four times a day, whether it's just to express a wish that he's having a good day, or else to spark conversation with some silly meme that he's far too old to understand. Until this radio silence, he's never noticed just how much he takes her presence for granted.

Several times he's picked up his phone to text her first, but as good as he can be with the written word, all sentiments have simply abandoned him, leaving him staring at that last message with a sense of hopelessness that eradicates all else.

And so he is resigned to wait until after the New Year to discuss the Christmas party, and he isn't sure that he'll survive it.

He goes about his morning ablutions with a heaviness that he's never known. Anna has had holidays before, of course, but she's never felt as far away as she does now—figuratively as well as literally. He drags himself to work, wondering what the day has in store for him.

At first, it doesn't appear as if there will be anything out of the ordinary. He greets Gwen on reception and although she blushes bright red and returns the sentiment in a rushed, muttered voice, evidently still not quite over the fact that the last time she'd seen him he'd been locking lips with her best friend, she still sounds friendly enough. The others greet him with the same jovial, courteous cheeriness that they always have, and he resolves to put everything to the back of his mind and concentrate on the day he has in front of him.

All of that changes when he reaches the staffroom. He's just about to push open the door when he hears the low strain of voices. Frowning, he debates what to do. He does not enjoy eavesdropping on conversation and is just about to turn away and try again in a few minutes when he catches his own name. Whoever is inside is talking about him. For a moment, he is indecisive, but it's one of those situations where a person knows that they should look away from something horrific but can't. Making sure that his cane doesn't thump against the carpet and give him away, he leans closer to the crack in the ajar door and strains his ears.

"…I don't believe you _do _know anything about Bates," comes the dour, bored voice. John's heart sinks. Sarah O'Brien. Of course. He should have known. Nothing ever good happens when she is at the heart of it. He dreads to think what's being plotted in there—there can be no doubt that Thomas Barrow, her constant partner in crime, is the person she is talking to. They've spent most of the two years that he's been working here trying to get him sacked, apparently out of some misguided belief that Thomas should have been promoted over him being hired. Anna had been almost apoplectic over their attempts and had planned her own careful revenge which had resulted in them being publicly humiliated for their crimes, and it had been one of the many, many things that had made him fall all the harder for her. He wishes she was here with him now. He's not a stranger to standing up for himself—he's had to do that all his life, and not always in the most positive way—but Anna has always been so much better at it, his very own champion.

And this presents a very alarming question: what does Thomas think he knows about him? He's always been careful to play his cards close to his chest, keeping his private life as separate from his professional one as possible. People still think him an enigma, distant and unfriendly. It's something Molesley is always keen to point out, though John suspects that that has something to do with the fact that the other man carries a torch for Anna too.

Whatever it is, if Thomas is involved, it can't be good news for him.

Carefully, he edges even closer to the door, until his ear is almost pressed up against the crack. He doesn't have to listen all that hard; Thomas' voice carries like a foghorn.

"You're never gonna believe it. It's totally disgusting. Not to mention unprofessional."

"What is?" says O'Brien impatiently.

"Bates and Anna!" Thomas says triumphantly.

The pit drops out of John's stomach, and he swallows hard against the sudden rise of bile in his throat. _How_? How does he possibly know anything!?

Evidently O'Brien wants the same answers. "What do you mean, Bates and Anna?"

"At the Christmas party!" Thomas crows. "Tonguing each other!"

For once, it appears that O'Brien is completely lost for words. John barely restrains himself from banging his forehead against the wall.

"What did you just say?" she manages at last.

Thomas speaks with the air of communicating with a very slow child. "Bates and Anna. At the Christmas party. Caught with their tongues down each other's throats."

"You've not just pulled that out of your arse, have you?"

"No!" says Thomas, affronted. "I heard it straight from the horse's mouth."

"Come off it, old Bates wouldn't share something like that with you if you were the last person on earth, and Anna is a saint who cosies up to him like a leech. She wouldn't dare do a thing to hurt his precious feelings, so she isn't going to talk to you."

"Well, maybe she didn't tell me directly," Thomas amends, "but I overheard her talking to Gwen about it. It's definitely true."

John clenches his fists. So the rat had been eavesdropping again. He should have known. Thomas is like that, seeping the air like poison, sticking to the shadows and striking when people least expect it, like the coward he is.

"Well." O'Brien sounds distinctively disgusted. "I'm not sure I want to know the details."

"But you're gonna love it," says Thomas. "It's hilarious, really. He hobbles about acting so high and mighty, but he's no better than the rest of us. Worse, really, slobbering over poor Anna like that."

"I don't know how she could have stood it," says O'Brien. "If he'd come anywhere near me, I'd've let him have both barrels."

Like O'Brien has ever had anyone ever come near her, with the constant expression she has on her face like she's inhaling an unpleasant smell, John thinks viciously, his shame sharpening his anger.

"Tell me about it," Thomas agrees. "She's got to be blind or something. Or maybe she's just desperate. I've never known her to date anyone while she's worked here."

John clenches his fists so tightly that his nails bite into his palms. He's shaking with anger. It's one thing for them to insult him—while it's demoralising, he can understand their disbelief, for he doesn't believe it himself—but to bring Anna into the equation, to say such disparaging things about her, is quite another thing. He'll show them. Right now he is spoiling for a fight, and taking his frustrations out on those two snakes would be most satisfying.

But before he can push open the door, O'Brien presses on," So, come on, spill the details. What happened?"

Thomas laughs. "Well, apparently Anna was the one to grab hold of old Bates."

"What?"

"Yep. I heard every single detail. Apparently Anna went outside to find Bates because he'd done his usual disappearing act, and while she was out there she was just overcome with the urge to kiss him."

"Revolting."

"Tell me about it. So that was when Gwen walked in on them and caught them trying to eat each other alive."

"Poor girl is probably scarred for life."

"She asked Anna what the hell had got into her."

"Reasonable question."

"And you know what Anna said?" Thomas voice rises an octave as he tries a crude, cruel imitation of Anna's thick Yorkshire accent. "She said, 'I've just wanted to do that for a long time, Gwen. It was perfect'. Perfect!"

"Perfectly nasty," says O'Brien. "I can't believe it."

"Yeah, I know. Bates has always had the stick so far up his own backside that I didn't even think he knew what the definition of 'passion' was. And how Anna can find anything interesting about that stuffy old git is mindboggling."

"The less I think about that, the better. I'm already having a difficult time keeping my breakfast down. I don't want to think of old Bates getting his leg over as well."

"I might have to dig a bit, see what I can find out. If they did end up shagging on Friday then it'd be great. We'll have so much ammunition."

"They left separately."

"So? Doesn't mean that they couldn't have met up later. And if they did, it'll show us just how much of a hypocrite he is. He's always so pious, the sanctimonious bastard. This'll show him. It'll do him good to be brought down a peg or two."

John trembles. Blood pulses through his head, making it difficult to hear. He would like nothing more than to storm in there and grab hold of Thomas, shaking some sense into him. He pushes and taunts him time and time again and now, with the shock of him knowing about what transpired on Friday night, his nerves are frayed. He has no doubt that Thomas will push this to the limit, accusing him and Anna of all sorts of things. He can't bear for them to be paraded around like exhibits at a museum.

At that moment, however, O'Brien's voice changes. "Christ, look at the time. We're five minutes late already. Carson is going to have our heads."

"Let the old dinosaur," says Thomas viciously, but John hears sounds of movement nevertheless. Hastily, he moves away from the door, backing back down the corridor. It won't do for him to be caught there now.

At least he hasn't been caught totally unaware, he tries to console himself. When Thomas comes at him with this—which he undoubtedly will—at least he won't be caught wrong-footed by the knowledge that the other man has. He just has to be patient and find a way to fight back against it.

No longer feeling like he wants a cup of tea, he trudges towards his office and throws down his things when he gets there. Now he needs to fill his day with as many tasks as possible, so that he can avoid the stares and whispers that are sure to come.

It's probably going to be easier said than done.

* * *

At ten to eleven, he receives his first test. There is a knock on the door, and it's Charles Carson himself.

"May I come in?" he says.

What choice does he have? John nods. Mr. Carson edges into the room and closes the door firmly behind him, glancing through the glass windows at the office beyond as if to ensure that they're not being watched. Everyone has their heads down studiously, but John is not fooled. They'll all be watching out of the corner of their eyes, silently communicating, trying to lip read. There's only one reason why Mr. Carson is here so early in the day, when he rarely drops by at all. Thomas hasn't wasted a moment in spreading his poison, and the vitriol has reached his superior. He steels himself.

"Would you like to sit down?" he says, gesturing to the seat across from his desk. Mr. Carson shakes his head.

"No, thank you, I'm fine where I am."

John suspects that it has everything to do with the power play. If Mr. Carson was sitting opposite him, it would look as if he'd been called there, not the other way around; by remaining standing, tall and forbidding as he is, it leaves John in no doubt as to who is really in charge, no matter the domain.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Carson?" he asks as pleasantly as he can, hoping that his voice doesn't shake and betray him.

Mr. Carson lingers awkwardly by the door. "I won't beat about the bush, Mr. Bates. Something's come to light."

"And what might that be?" He hopes that he sounds politely puzzled. Beneath the table, his fingers twist together.

Mr. Carson sighs. "It's a delicate subject."

Here it goes. "I'm not a delicate person. Please, Mr. Carson, I'd rather we speak frankly."

Mr. Carson sighs heavily. "Very well. I have heard…a rumour being bandied about the office, about something that went off at the Christmas party on Friday. Something that happened between you and Anna."

There's no use acting coy and prolonging the embarrassment further. "I'm assuming you're referring to the fact that Anna and I kissed."

Mr. Carson turns the colour of beetroot. Obviously talking about anything the least bit personal is far out of his remit. John has never been able to imagine him as anything but stern and upright. Mrs. Hughes is usually better at navigating through delicate situations like these, treating all of the women under her like surrogate daughters, but she can also be stern, too; John has no doubt that he would be in for an even rougher time if she was here now, interrogated like a suspect in a murder case about his intentions.

"Well, that's what the rumours are," he blusters.

"They're true," John says flatly. He sees no point in delaying the inevitable admission.

"Mistletoe?" Mr. Carson says hopefully.

"No," John sighs, busying himself with the papers on his desk. "There was no mistletoe."

Mr. Carson looks crestfallen. Clearly he could have coped if he'd been told that mere tradition dictated it. He likes tradition. "I see. Well, you know more than anyone that this is a highly unusual situation."

John doubts it; how many stories are out there of drunken fumbles at work parties? Their company itself isn't infallible—there was some kerfuffle between Daisy and William last time, Mary and Matthew had a fling that started at one of these functions, and there had been that mad game of truth and dare at the 'No Managers Allowed' party, which thankfully he had not been invited to. Anna had shared all the details of that with him, and there were some that he'd rather not have known. He doesn't say anything, waiting for his superior to continue.

He does so, looking more discomfited by the second. "I'll be honest, I would rather not be having this conversation with you, Mr. Bates. I don't like treating you like you're some young boy behaving drunkenly and recklessly, but I have to be seen treating you the same as I would someone like James."

Which John thinks is very unfair, considering the fact that his behaviour is nothing like Jimmy's. "I understand."

"We have a reputation to uphold, and we, as senior staff, need to ensure that we are setting the right example for the younger individuals in our teams. I know a lot of them can be easily led astray, and we don't want to encourage such behaviour in them."

"What do you mean?" John says before he can stop himself, the words coming out a tad more biting than he'd intended. But his temper is rising once more. It's so early in the day and he's already tired of the way that people are insinuating that what he and Anna did was dirty and wrong. It does not make him feel any better about the situation, and he wishes all over again that Anna was here with him, that he could see her reaction and at least know what to do one way or the other.

"Well," says Mr. Carson, "we can't have members of staff having drunken flings here, there, and everywhere. It will only cause a bad atmosphere and could lead to any number of disasters. If they look at you as a trusted senior member of staff and see you having a meaningless relationship with another member of staff, they'll think that they're fine to do the same."

"I respect what you're saying," John says quietly. "But you're wrong."

Mr. Carson's impressive eyebrows rise. "I'm sorry?"

"You're wrong," John repeats, louder this time. "It wasn't a drunken fling. I don't drink. Anna had had a couple, but she wasn't even tipsy. We were as clear minded as we would have been at any other time."

"I see," says Mr. Carson. His eyebrows are still somewhere in danger of falling off his head. "I see." He doesn't seem to know what to say now that he's confirmed that it was more than what he'd thought it was.

And now John has to acknowledge that fact too. Even though he doesn't know what the hell it really was to Anna, since she hasn't said a thing to him, despite what Thomas alleges she said to Gwen—which could be a lie, for all he knows—he has to admit the truth to himself: what transpired between them meant everything to him. He'd always told himself that nothing could happen between them, but now that she's kissed him…He knows that it will be impossible to go back to pretending that nothing has transpired. He's wanted her for so long, and now that he's had a taste of her, he isn't sure how he can go back to pretending that they are just friends. Not now.

"So it's serious between you, then?" Mr. Carson asks at last, the words seemingly difficult to get out.

"I don't know," John answers truthfully; it would be silly to do anything else when he doesn't have a clue what's going on. But he can at least be honest on his own behalf. "Anna means a very, very great deal to me, Mr. Carson, and I certainly have no intentions of leading her on. My main concern has been, and always will be, her happiness."

"Well, very good. And Anna feels the same?"

"That's a conversation for when she comes back home," he says carefully. "I wouldn't like to be presumptuous."

"Very well," says Mr. Carson. "I'll say no more for now. I just wanted to hear your side of the story, not just the rumours that are going around."

"I appreciate that. Thank you."

The older man does not make to leave, however, shuffling uncomfortably. "There's one other thing."

John has a feeling that he knows what that is. "Yes?"

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to tell Robert about this."

John's heart sinks. Yes, that's what he's been fearing. It's not as if his best friend will be unhappy—hell, he'll be over the moon—but that is part of the problem. He would have preferred to keep this whole thing under wraps until he'd ironed things out with Anna, but that's an impossibility now. And if Mr. Carson doesn't tell Robert, then he'll have to. He's going to hear anyway, if the rumours are flying about as Mr. Carson is insinuating.

"I understand," he sighs.

"I don't like playing the part of Pontius Pilate, but I feel I have no choice," says Mr. Carson with the air of someone with a great burden on his shoulders.

"I understand," John repeats. "But I appreciate your frankness."

"I think that will be all for now," says Mr. Carson. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Bates."

"Not at all." John rises and waits as the older man turns away and closes the door behind him. Only when he is out of eyesight does he sink back down into his seat, refraining from burying his head in his hands only because he knows that people are still watching him through the huge glass windows. He can't show any weakness.

Even so, he finds it difficult to focus on work for the rest of the day.

His phone remains ominously quiet.

* * *

He manages to spend the rest of the day holed up in his office, leaving it only to collect his lunch and sneak back in before anyone can confront him. He leaves long after everyone else has gone home, returning to his cold and empty flat, still with no word from Anna.

* * *

_One Day Later_

By now, he deduces that the rumour mill is rife; everywhere he goes he garners open stares from his fellow employees. He tries to tell himself that it doesn't really bother him, but it does. He's never done well being the centre of attention, and certainly not since his injury.

He had another poor night's sleep yesterday, too, tossing and turning and watching the hands on the clock move by as his mind whirred and buzzed. He spent the whole time wondering what Anna was doing, if she was having a good time, if she was as preoccupied by what had occurred as he was, if she even cared at all.

Coffee is what he needs. It's still early, much earlier than what most people find to be an acceptable time to be in work—he found the tossing and turning to be absolutely pointless, and decided that he might as well get a head start on the day. It suits him just fine. At least this way he can be hidden in his office before the masses start arriving.

Making his way towards the kitchen, he is once again given reason to pause; the Yorkshire lilt he hears is unmistakable. It's Mrs. Patmore, who runs the staff cafeteria. Her voice carries, klaxon-like, and his heart sinks once more.

Even here he is the topic of conversation.

He desperately wants to turn away, but he also needs the coffee. He just needs to get in and out as quickly as he can. He stumps down the rest of the corridor, but before he can push open the door and stop the conversation in its tracks, he hears Daisy say, "…So it's true, then? About Anna and Mr. Bates?"

"According to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes," says Mrs. Patmore. "Mr. Carson says that Mr. Bates admitted it himself. But don't you go talking about it with anyone else, you hear me?"

"Thomas has been talking about it," Daisy points out.

"Thomas is a scoundrel. You'll do well to listen to me, Daisy, mark my words. We don't want to embarrass them."

"Why should they be embarrassed if they wanted to do it?" says Daisy.

Mrs. Patmore tuts. "I highly doubt that this is the way that they wanted it to come out."

"Why not?"

"Lord, girl, are you daft? Who in their right mind would want everyone to know about something as personal as that when they haven't even had time to grow into it themselves?"

She's hit the nail on the head there, John thinks ruefully.

"I never would have guessed it, though," says Daisy. "Not our Anna!"

"She's a young woman who knows what she wants," says Mrs. Patmore sagely. "We've always admired that about her. It's what made her such a good protégé for Mrs. Hughes. But I think we're sometimes prone to forget that just because she's always here for people inside of work, she leads her own life outside of it."

"But Anna and Mr. Bates!"

"I was shocked to hear it at first," Mrs. Patmore admits. "But now that the shock of it has worn off, it's not actually that surprising."

"I suppose so," Daisy concedes. "They _do _seem very well matched. They're always together, aren't they? And Mr. Bates does make Anna smile a lot. That's always a nice thing."

That gives John reason to pause. It's unlike anything snide that Thomas and O'Brien were sneering about yesterday, and it's actually heartening. He's never really considered what their relationship might look like outside of his own tortured belief that people would look down on them. It's _nice _to think that that might not be the case. And if Daisy and Mrs. Patmore think that he and Anna suit each other well…well, perhaps things aren't as hopeless as he'd thought.

"I'm glad," Daisy says decisively, at last. "I'm glad Anna has found someone she likes, and Mr. Bates too. He's always been very kind to me."

"Aye, that's true, lass," says Mrs. Patmore. "They look well together, and it's about time Mr. Bates found some happiness after what that harpy of an ex-wife did to him. I'm sure it can be the start of something beautiful."

The start of something beautiful. Christ, he hopes so. Maybe they're right. Maybe it's time that he _did _put his demons in the past and do them justice. Do _Anna _justice.

Feeling buoyed, he bangs his way down the corridor, giving Mrs. Patmore and Daisy plenty of warning that he is arriving so that they can change the subject. When he enters the kitchen, he finds them both working hard to set the place to rights before the start of a new day.

"You're here early!" says Mrs. Patmore.

John spins off the same tale of getting a head start on the day, and busies himself with making a cup of coffee as they finish off what they are doing. They bid him goodbye and he returns it, then waits until the door snaps to behind them before pulling out his phone. He might as well start to make some kind of amends now. Dawdling for a few minutes, he tries to find words to express how he feels. In the end, after deleting several options, he settles for something short and sweet.

_I do miss you, you know._

He dallies for a few more seconds before adding the decisive, fateful kiss. He's never used it before, not even with Anna, and he hopes that it signals to her just how much he does so.

He isn't sure what the time differences are between Downton and where Anna is, but by the time he's reached his office, his own message tone has pinged. He snatches his phone.

Her reply, too, is simple, but it raises his spirits more than he could possibly articulate.

_I miss you too. X_

* * *

Whilst Anna is not here, it seems that people are less inclined to openly make too many comments about what transpired at the Christmas party. He still catches sight of people whispering behind their hands, glancing his way when they think that he's not looking, but it bothers him less than it was. He knows he's going to have to stand up and face it in the New Year, but he finds that the prospect is less scary than he'd initially thought. He hasn't heard anything from Anna since her last text, but somehow he feels more settled about it.

Halfway through the day, his phone rings; the internal number flashing on the screen indicates that it's from Robert. Which means that Mr. Carson must have broken.

"Hi, Rob," he says, pressing the receiver to his ear. "What can I do for you?"

"Don't you take that bloody innocent tone with me. Carson's just told me something very interesting."

"Oh?" John tries to keep his tone light, and probably fails horrifically.

"Yes, 'oh'. You're a dark horse. Come and see me. Now."

"Am I in trouble?" he asks.

"That depends. Now, Bates."

The line goes dead. John rolls his eyes. Robert would never go too hard on him, not after everything they've been through together, but even so, he'd rather not be subjected to the chat he knows he is bound to be. Anna has been an integral part of the Crawley family for years and is almost a sister to Mary, and he knows that Robert cares deeply for her well-being. Since Anna's father is not around anymore to subject him to the uncomfortable parent chats, it seems that Robert is going to take up that mantle. Still, he cannot avoid it. Heaving himself to his feet, he limps out of the door and makes his way towards Robert's office, ignoring the stares that have become customary now. He knocks on the door.

"Enter," Robert calls, like a king in his castle. Pushing his shoulders back, John does so.

"You summoned me," he says, a little sarcastically.

If Robert picks up on it, he does not acknowledge the insubordination. "Close the door, Bates."

He does so. When it clicks closed, Robert stands up and drops the blind. As soon as they are hidden from view, a broad smile breaks across his face, and he is his boss no longer, but the friend he has known for so many years.

"You old scoundrel, Bates," he crows. "Snogging our Anna. Gracious me. When Carson told me I almost fell out of my chair. If it hadn't been for Carson with his face so screwed up in concern, I would never have believed it."

"Is this going to take long?" says John, crossing his arms across his chest. "I have got other things to be getting on with, you know."

Robert's grin widens. "Don't be such a spoilsport. You've got to let me have my moment. I never thought I'd get it again with you. You're so stubborn that I thought I'd be forced to watch you live the rest of your life as a monk. Doesn't look like it's going to be that way anymore, does it?"

"Don't be crude," says John.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me that you haven't thought about it. Pretty girl like Anna…"

"I thought you were supposed to be doing some kind of fatherly chat?" John interrupts. "You know, you'll break my kneecaps if I do anything to hurt her?"

"And I would. It'd give you something else to complain about. Not to mention what Mary would do to you if you ever did anything to break Anna's heart. But you're my friend too, and I want to see you happy. I am a firm believer in second chances, and I think this one is yours. Take it, Bates."

John considers his friends words, knows that he's speaking from a place of experience. After all, his friend has been on the receiving end of that kind of forgiveness and second chance in the past, after a stupid mistake he made with Jane, one of their ex-employees. John firmly believes that Jane had never wanted to cause any trouble, for she had been conscientious and kind, but sometimes feelings are difficult to control, and she had not removed herself from the situation in time. Cora had, completely understandably, hit the roof when she'd discovered the truth, and her twenty-five year marriage had been on the rocks for a while. But love had also won out, and although it had taken time to rebuild the trust between them, they had decided to put the past in the past. His situation with Anna is far from the same thing, but she is offering him something that he'd never thought he'd have again, and that is trust. Companionship. Affection. Quiet intimacy. They're all things that he's been longing to have and has been too scared to take.

He has to take them now.

"So what happened?" Robert asks suddenly. "And how come you didn't breathe a word to me about this during the rest of the night?"

"My mind was all over the place," John says honestly. "I didn't know what the hell to think. I couldn't even begin to tell you any of that when I didn't know what to think myself. To think that Anna actually wanted to kiss me was mindboggling."

Robert smirks. "And very nice, I'd wager."

"Yes," John concedes. "It was. It _is_." He thinks of her soft mouth and goes warm all over again. Christ, he wishes that she was here now, so that they could have that conversation…and so that he could kiss her again.

"So, come on, you're still holding out on the details," Robert persists. "I want to know everything."

"There's not much to tell. She followed me outside. We talked for a few moments and it just sort of…happened."

"Just sort of happened, eh?" snickers Robert. "You finally snapped, did you? I thought you might. The way you've always looked at her…"

"I've never looked at her in an unprofessional way," John argues.

"Of course you have. We all knew you fancied her something rotten. Mary teased Anna about it constantly, apparently."

"About me fancying her?"

"No, you idiot, about her fancying you."

The matter-of-factness of the statement makes John pause. It's yet another thing that he's never stopped to consider before. That Anna had made it obvious to her friends that she _fancied _him simply beggars belief. He is not some Greek-god type, the kind of man who inspires lust and fanciful fantasies in women.

"Oh, well," he says, "that's nice to hear."

"Nice to hear? Bloody hell, Bates, if that was me, I would have been doing a victory dance. You're not going to fuck this up, are you?"

The abrupt question takes him by surprise; he folds his arms across his chest. "Of course not."

"Are you sure about that? If there's one person who's good at pushing away good things in his life, it's you." Robert softens. "Look, I just want you to be happy. Anna wants to try. At least do her the courtesy of letting her."

John stares at his best friend for a long moment before scrubbing his hand across his face. For the first time, he admits the thought that has been plaguing him. "What if…what if I'm not enough for her?"

"You will be."

"But you don't know that. I've never managed to maintain anything before, have I?"

"That's because you've never had the right woman before. Vera was completely insane. There's no wonder that didn't work out. It was a recipe for disaster from the beginning. Then again, you married her for all the wrong reasons."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," says John. "I don't need to be reminded of those right now."

"You're right. Best leave that in the past, and focus on what's actually good in your future. And Anna is that, Bates, I know she is."

"I know it too," John says softly. She could never be anything other than good for him. He just hopes that he can be worthy of her in turn.

Robert slaps his knees. "Anyway, I think that's enough soppy talk for one day. Time is money here. Get back to work, and when you're done for the day you're coming out for a drink down the pub, no arguments. I still need a blow-by-blow account of exactly what happened that night, you hear me?"

John knows that he has no other choice, for his best friend can be as dogged as his eldest daughter when he wants to be. "All right. As long as you buy the first round. I'll need some sort of incentive to spill my secrets."

"A pity I can't get you drunk for that," muses Robert. "Ah, well, I'm sure Mary will tell me anything that you don't. Women like to gossip, don't they?"

"I have no idea," John says lightly, but he feels the heat rising in his face at the thought of Anna giving Mary a detailed account of the way that they had kissed each other. He isn't sure how much he really wants Mary to know; after all, she has been almost like a niece figure to him over the years, and he knows that he would feel beyond awkward if she were to ever bring it up with that arrogant, knowing smirk.

"Well, I'm sure I'll find out. Now, get out of here, Bates."

John bows mockingly, but backs out of the room with relief. As much as he loves his friend, he's tired of the questions. He just wants to be left alone in blessed peace for the rest of the afternoon.

And if that gives him a quiet opportunity to think about Anna…well, for once, he's not going to stop himself.

* * *

_Eight Days Later_

Christmas has come and gone in a rare flurry of snow. John spends the time quietly at home with his mother. They have a small Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, John insisting on doing all the work to give her a rest. They exchange gifts between them, and his mother coos over what he's got her. It gives him a purpose, knowing that he can do something like that for her.

Throwing himself into taking care of his mother also means that he has less time to brood on Anna. He still hasn't heard from her since that text telling him that she missed him, and every time he contemplates sending her a quick message his brain freezes, unable to come up with any casual conversation starters. Above everything, he wants to respect her wishes.

If his mother notices that he is distracted, she is good enough not to say anything, though he does catch her gazing at him calculatingly a couple of times, and he has no doubt that she has put two and two together and reached four. She has always been very shrewd where Anna is concerned.

Once Christmas is over, New Year comes around in a flash. He had tried to persuade his mother to come to the Crawleys' gathering too, but she had stood her ground.

"I'm far too old for any of that," she'd complained. "All the noise would give me a headache, and I'm past the days where I enjoy a lot of company. Leave me here, son. I'll be as happy as Larry with the TV and a book."

John had made up his mind to stay with her too, but she was ferocious in her insistence that he go to his friend's and have a good time.

"Do something for you, for once," she'd told him. "I'll still be here when you come home. You deserve to have some fun."

And so that is where the hours leading up to the New Year find him, nursing a glass of water in the Crawleys' huge house. If he is honest with himself, he _would _rather be at home with his mother. He has never been one for large crowds and lots of noise, and the surroundings make him feel rather claustrophobic. The music is too loud, the chatter grates on him, and apart from the Crawleys he doesn't know anyone else. Under normal circumstances he could force himself to at least join in, but tonight, with so many things still unanswered, he does not feel like doing so. Likely Robert will accuse him of being unfriendly when it's all over, but for the moment John can't bring himself to care.

When the DJ invites the revellers onto the dancefloor for a lively rendition of Gangnam Style, John sees his opportunity to escape for a short while. He'd rather lose his right leg entirely than be forced to watch something quite so horrifying. A cigarette is the perfect excuse for him to get a breath of fresh air, and he waves the packet pointedly across the room at Robert when his friend raises a questioning eyebrow.

Outside, the air is deliciously fresh, and John inhales deeply, tipping his head back to contemplate the sky above him. Unfortunately the night is overcast, and he can't see any stars winking through the thick black cloud. It's a shame. He likes being beneath the sky like that. It makes him feel safer, less vulnerable. Which is odd, really, considering that he lost the full use of his right leg on the open battleground.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he fumbles in his pocket for his lighter and flares up, taking a deep drag and closing his eyes as the nicotine enters his bloodstream. There, that's better. He leans against the wall and takes another drag. It's nice, being out here in the quiet, far away from the other party-goers. At the moment he's the only smoker out here, and he relishes the solitude—no doubt before long he'll be joined by someone else and will be forced to make small talk over his fag.

He's right: all too soon the door swings open again, and footsteps spill out onto the gravel. John closes his eyes, allowing himself to feel a stab of disappointment for a second before mustering a smile. He turns in the direction of the newcomer, ready to make a polite greeting—

The cigarette tumbles out of his mouth and hits the floor, where it continues to smoulder sadly.

"Whoops," says Anna cheerfully.

Words will not come; he simply continues to stare, gaping like a goldfish. This can't be real. He's hallucinating. Dreaming. Anna is in America. She's not due back until after the New Year, when they return to work. It's not real. It can't be.

If she isn't, she's doing a pretty good job of convincing him that she _is_. She comes to a rest at his side, folding her arms across her chest. She's wrapped up in a thick winter coat that absolutely swamps her. It's still one of the most attractive sights that John has ever seen. Her cheeks are rosy, from the wind or from the heat of the party he can't say.

"What are you doing here?" he blurts. It comes across a little rude; he does his best to back-peddle. "I thought you were supposed to be in America until later this week."

"I was," she says, unfazed. "But I decided to catch an early plane back."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to spend the New Year here. I wanted to see you."

The words linger between them, pointed and unashamed. John turns his gaze away from Anna's. The way that she's staring at him, with an intensity that he's never known before, is disconcerting. It's as if she's staring right into his very soul, and just like that his insecurities come rushing back. She's standing right there in front of him, looking all the more beautiful for having not clamped eyes on her for so long, and he feels so inferior by comparison. She could do so much better than him, and _deserves _to.

"I see," he manages. "Well, did you have a nice Christmas?"

"I'm not doing that."

"What?"

Anna gestures between them, defiance alive in her expression. "That. Brushing things away, pretending that we don't have things to talk about. I'm done with that. We've done it for two years. Now is the time to iron things out once and for all."

"I don't understand what you mean—"

"Yes, you do. It's time we talked about that kiss."

He's been trying to fight off the memory of that night from the moment she appeared behind him, but it's irresistible; as he stares at her, half-terrified, it rises up in front of him like a phantom, consuming him. As he watches her mouth form words, he can still feel the soft weight of it upon his own. Tingling. Wrong.

_Right_.

"You know why I kissed you," Anna begins without preamble. "I kissed you because I couldn't stop myself from any longer."

"And I told you why we shouldn't," he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. So many reasons, so many failures are back once more, acting as barriers to any happiness he might want to fight for, drowning him.

"And _I _told you that I don't care about any of that," she retorts, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "The past has no bearing on the present."

"Of course it does—"

"Are you drinking yourself into oblivion every night? No. Are you still married to that harpy? No. Are you doing everything in your power to make yourself a better man? _Yes_. That's what's important, John. Everyone makes mistakes."

"Not as calamitous as mine."

Anna rolls her eyes, huffs, changes tack. "You kissed me back."

The frankness of her words disarms him; he hadn't expected her to simply state it as fact, with no shyness at all. He's seen no-nonsense, unafraid Anna plenty of times before, but he hadn't expected to see her _here_, in this situation.

Clearly he's underestimated her again.

"That was…" he begins, unable to hold her unflinching gaze. "I didn't—"

"You did it because you wanted to," she overrides, blazing and beautiful. "It was instinct. It was your heart giving you away, John."

And as much as he hates to admit it, he knows that she's right. He's always kept himself carefully restrained around her, contained and compartmentalised in all of the little boxes that he allows himself, personal and professional never allowed to intertwine. That line had blurred more and more the more time that they spent together, until it was impossible for him to keep his distance from her. But he had been determined to keep a lid on the feelings that had grown incrementally inside him, because he could not bear to make her uncomfortable or, worse, to ruin her life.

He's failed on all counts.

"I know you feel the same way that I do," Anna continues, oblivious to the war raging inside him.

"That doesn't matter," he says now, hating himself for confirming her words but seeing no alternative.

"It matters more than anything," she counters. "It's time that you were honest with yourself, John. With _both _of us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She juts her chin out in defiance, tilting her head back a little to look at him. She's so short, but somehow the look in her eyes makes up for her small stature, and John finds himself taking a step backwards.

"You look me in the eyes now and tell me that you can live your life without me, and I'll leave you now and we'll never speak of this again," she says. "We'll carry on exactly as we are. You'll still be my friend. I won't resent you or treat you any differently than how I do now when I see you. But that's as far as it will go. We'll be friends. I won't be able to spend all of my time with you like I currently do, because it would be painful for me. You know I have feelings for you, and it would be unfair of you to expect any different. Wounds won't heal if you keep scratching them open. Do you understand?"

He understands completely, wonders if she's alluding to more than just her own wounds. Has he not spent the last five years doing just that, preventing his own festering wounds from healing because he doesn't think that he deserves it?

"Say it, John," she says. "Say that you can live without me and I'll drop this, I promise. If you can honestly say that you've been happy this week, then say it."

And that's the catch, he realises, the Kairos moment. Because that's something that he could never, ever say, and he's sure that she already knows that. He's never known such misery as he has done this past week, living in a fog that hasn't once lifted. He's been living his whole life on a knife edge, desperate to know what she was thinking about the kiss, desperate to know that she'd felt what he had. Desperate to know if she had been thinking of his mouth as often as he had been thinking of hers, desperate to know if she had sat there with her finger hovering over the call button on her phone, too scared to call him and break this odd spell.

Desperate to know what he was to her.

He can't live without her. He wants her in every aspect of his life. Wants her triumph, her disappointments. Her happiness, her tears. Wants her sharp wit and soft manner. Wants every inch of her with everything within him.

His silence speaks volumes.

Anna takes a determined step forward, her hand just shy of resting against his chest. Her blue eyes burn into him, a shade of sapphire he's never seen before.

"Well?" she prompts.

The words are stuck in his throat. He cannot speak them.

Anna senses her victory, closes the distance between them, and rises up on her tiptoes so she can press her mouth to his. Before he can top himself he's kissing her back, two weeks' worth of confusion and anxiety manifesting itself in an explosion of desire. Her arms wind tightly around his neck, and she pushes her small frame up against his. He can feel every inch of her against him, is helpless to stop his arms from moving to her waist, pulling her even closer to him. He's never needed anyone the way that he needs Anna, and it's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measures. Right now he can't even bring himself to even try to disentangle the two emotions. They are a part of his DNA. For the first time in a long time, he allows his eyes to drift closed and simply enjoys the moment. Enjoys the intimacy of her mouth on his. Enjoys the softness of her fingers in his hair. Enjoys how small and strong she feels in his arms.

At length, Anna pulls away from him. It hurts to lose contact with her mouth, but John forces himself to open his eyes again, finding Anna's right below him as she juts her chin up towards him. There's a smile on her face, pleased and triumphant. She runs her tongue over her lips, and he feels something deep and primal tug at his insides. He clears his throat.

"See?" she says, oblivious. "Isn't this so much better than fighting?"

"I can't deny that," he acknowledges weakly; to lie to her would be to insult her. "But that doesn't mean that this is right, Anna. I would hate to bring you down or ruin your life."

"The only ruin I recognise is to be without you," she says, with such surety that it makes his heart contract. "Please, John, don't make us both unhappy."

He doesn't want to see her pale, drawn, miserable.

He doesn't want to see her flourishing again one day, all because of another man.

Selfish or not, this is the chance he has spent the last two years longing for. If he doesn't take it now, he knows that he will never get another one, and he will have to live the rest of his life knowing that he wasn't brave enough to take the opportunity when it came.

Anna is brave enough to take that chance.

He owes her the same bravery in return.

"I never want to make you unhappy, Anna," he says. "I care about you too much. I just want what's best for you."

"Then accept that you're what's best for me," she says. "Accept that I know what I'm doing and what I'm getting into. Accept that I don't care about your past, just what the future might hold. Accept that you're the right man for me."

It's time to stand up and be counted. He might not agree with her sentiment that he's the right man for her, but he knows that to deny it for any longer is foolish and causing them more hurt than they need.

"I do," he says at last, and the tide floods against them, rushing in, sweeping him away in a tidal wave of relief. "I love you, Anna."

Anna's smile is enough to light up the whole world, and she launches herself into his arms with a laugh, almost winding him as they stagger back a few paces. He feels tears on his face—her tears of happiness—as she kisses him hard, squeezing him so tight that he very nearly forgets what it is to breathe. He doesn't care. He simply holds her just as tightly in return and matches her kiss for kiss. This time, there are no interruptions, and by the time that the fireworks go off overhead with the distant _oohs _and _ahhs _of the crowd out front, he is lightheaded with joy. Anna pulls away from him, pressing her cheek against his chest, her smile so wide that it must physically hurt her face. He leans down and brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and she sighs, leaning further into his touch.

"I love you," she whispers, and he only just realises that it's the first time he's heard her say the words too. He holds on to her that little bit tighter, his heart swelling. "Happy New Year."

There will be many, many more to come.

* * *

_Two Days Later_

On the second of January, they walk into work together hand-in-hand, heads held high. John's heart is pounding but having Anna by his side, matching him step for step, is all the reassurance he needs. Almost as soon as they walk in through the doors all eyes are upon them, and the whispers ripple through the room like a soft breeze as they pass on through. This time, John can't bring himself to care. Let people say what they want. Anna's opinion is the only one that matters; the rumour mill is nothing compared to the truth they hold so dear in their hearts. It might take a little while for people to come to see that, but he knows that one day they will. The truth will out, after all.

And this is the truth of the matter: he is in love with Anna May Smith. She is in love with him. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

He pauses in the doorway as the thought strikes him. Anna halts beside him, a little frown creasing her face. She squeezes his fingers.

"What's wrong?" she murmurs.

"Nothing," he tells her, then raises his voice, moves his gaze around the room and meets each and every person unmovingly. "I'm in love with Anna."

Anna's intake of breath is sharp; clearly she had not been expecting him to make such a bold declaration. He's taken himself by surprise, too. But it had to be said. He's spent too long skulking in the shadows. He's spent too long letting other people speak for him and create their own stories about him, sordid or otherwise. It's time to take his destiny into his own hands. It's time to stand up and be counted.

"I'm in love with John," Anna adds cheerfully, her whole face alight. "We'll take any questions you have later."

Giggling, she tugs him after her, and he goes with a grin of his own, excited for what the future holds.


End file.
